


Nightfall

by objectlesson



Series: The House of Durin Series [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Conversations, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Pining, Sleepy Cuddles, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Bard grits his teeth. His body always gives him away like this: he cannot hide what he feels, even if he says nothing about it. Bofur touches him and he lights up, he grows in the direction of the sun like any vine. That is the way of the world
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bofur
Series: The House of Durin Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810201
Comments: 29
Kudos: 54





	Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I was sad and missed my boyos soooo I wrote a little timestamp from Bard's POV in All Night Long. It happens around chapter 7, sometime near Halloween. Enjoy!

It’s well after midnight, and Bard can’t sleep. 

Or, he _could,_ but he doesn't want to, even though he has a full day of work ahead of him, doubles at Whole Foods _and_ closing at the bar. It’s just that—Bofur is in his bed for the _third time this week,_ naked and curled on his side snoring very gently, and it’s such a wonderful, lovely thing that Bard doesn't want to miss a moment of. Often, Bofur is restless when he spends the night, tossing and turning and waking too early with bags under his eyes, and Bard is forced to feel guilty for selfishly keeping him from the routine of his own bed. But not tonight. Tonight he’s knocked out completely, hair spread out on the pillow he has one hand shoved under, a dark like an oil spill in the moonlight filtering through the window.

Bard very gently palms down the curve of his back, and sighs. It’s getting harder and harder to not let himself get hopeful that this thing with Bofur might be permanent, the way he so desperately wants it to be. 

Bofur stirs in his sleep, but then goes right on ahead twitching and snoring, so Bard relaxes, fitting himself closer, lips against his scapula where he’s still faintly sticky with sex sweat lingering from hours before. “I love you too much,” he murmurs then, very quietly even though he is certain Bofur cannot hear him, unless there is some magic and silent pathway laid out between Bard’s lips, and Bofur’s dreams. “Not sure what to do about it.” Of course, Bofur does not answer. He’s so warm and so sleep-heavy that Bard can hardly keep his eyes open while touching him, so he winds an arm around his waist and presses his face into the wreck of his hair, and there he drifts off alongside him in a slow-moving river of idle, longing hope. 

When he blinks awake, it’s not yet morning. His room is still full of shadows, but the bed is creaking and he realizes they traded positions in the night: he’s on his other side now and Bofur is behind him, shifting closer, settling in so the warm plane of his chest is flush with Bard’s back. 

His heart leaps in his ribcage, and suddenly he’s wide awake. They definitely cuddle after sex, but so far, when sleeping, _he_ is the one who does the spooning. This is the first time in his memory Bofur has sidled up behind him, pushing a knee between his legs and palming from his stomach to his chest, breath hot and sleepy against the back of his neck as he holds Bard close. However, he pauses the motion as his palm brushes over the nervous, sudden thunder of Bard’s heart. 

Bard grits his teeth. His body always gives him away like this: he cannot hide what he feels, even if he says nothing about it. Bofur touches him and he lights up, he grows in the direction of the sun like any vine. That is the way of the world. “Oh—is this ok?” Bofur asks gently, thumbing over Bard’s rapid pulse. His voice is hoarse and sleepy, and it makes Bard’s stomach roll over in longing. _Fuck._ He’s not sure how long he can _do_ this. How many more nights he can sleep beside his man and hold him close and _be held_ and pretend they’re just friends with benefits casually fucking or whatever, when he fell fast and hard _weeks_ ago. 

He inhales sharply and lays his hand over Bofur’s, trapping it there against his stupid betraying heartbeat. “It’s wonderful,” he tells him, as he melts into the cage of his arms. “You feel so fucking good,” he admits. 

Bofur softens against him, and Bard feels him smile the back of his neck. And _that_ makes his stomach drop all over again, because Bofur’s smile is the loveliest, brightest, most contagious thing there is in the world. He thumbs up and down the back of his hand, basking in the incredible heat of his body, imagining the lazy, imperfect shape of his lips drawn up into a crooked half moon, the white flash of his teeth. Hoping and hoping and hoping and— _wondering,_ maybe, what might happen if he told him. He he rolled over here in the darkness, cupped Bofur’s face between his palms and confessed: _I’ve fallen in love with you, and I want to sleep like this every fucking night until we’re both old and grey and creaky and the kids have moved out and had kids of their own. Don’t stop touching me—not tonight, not ever._

Bard is reckless with exhaustion, with that odd sort of bravery that only comes in the middle of the night, when everything is surreal and you cannot be certain you’re not dreaming. So he takes a deep breath, and gets as far as rolling over so that they are facing each other, lips inches apart in the night, before he balks. 

His heart pounds and the words die in his throat as he’s bowled over by the dark flash of Bofur’s chocolate brown eyes. He can’t see the color in them right now, but he _knows_ it, he _remembers_ it, he shuts his own eyes at work sometimes and leans against the display of cans or soy milk or whatever and imagines it, how warm and perfect it is, how much he would like to live in the tar-sticky sweetness of it. And then, Bard is pitching forward and finding Bofur’s full mouth and kissing him, like he is passing a silent secret from his own lips to Bofur’s. 

Bofur kisses back slow and hot for a few seconds before making a delayed sound of surprise in his throat and pulling away to gasp. “Hi,” he says, carding a hand through Bard’s hair, finger bumping along his scalp. “Everything ok?” 

“Yes. I just—come here,” Bard growls, pulling Bofur back in with a fist in his hair, kissing him over and over again, rough and deep until Bofur relents and opens his mouth and gives him his tongue and _god,_ he _tastes_ so good, he _feels_ like heaven, and Bard doesn’t want to give this up. Not ever. _I love you, I love you,_ he thinks with every drag of their mouths, pulse thundering as he rolls Bofur onto his back to straddle him, to get at his neck. He sucks the stubble-rough skin there for a second, static behind his eyelids as Bofur lets out a wheezing laugh that vibrates under his tongue. 

“M’half asleep,” he mumbles palming up the planes of muscle in Bard’s back before digging his nails in. “I don’t know what’s happening.” Then he yawns, and Bard mouths his way lower, down his chest, rubbing his cheek into the hair between his pectorals. Bofur is generally hairier than he is, but the hair itself is somehow _downy,_ soft like the rest of him, and Bard just—he cannot get enough. He cannot stand the thought of all his angles losing this cushioning, the sudden and unexpected tenderness and laughter and _warmth_ in his life. “Are you awake enough to consent to a midnight blowjob?” he asks, razing his teeth over a nipple, loving the way Bofur grins and squirms. 

Bofur cards his hands through Bard’s hair, untangling it gently before saying, “You want to blow me? You—you already blew me earlier. You don’t have to do it again.” 

He says things like this a lot—things which imply Bard reciprocating sex is somehow a chore, and he’s not exactly sure what to do about it, really, because he’s quite enthusiastic about such matters and that doesn't seem to be enough. He doesn’t know how to _tell_ Bofur he _loves_ it, that he craves it, that he would do it over and over again every goddamned day until they die, if only Bofur would _let_ him. Everything he says on the subject drifts so dangerously close to confessing to Bofur how he feels, though, so he just shakes his head and kisses a path down his stomach, inhaling the sleepy, salty spice of his skin with his eyes shut. “I don’t—I don’t do anything with you because I have to. I do it because I love sucking dick. You don’t have to let me, I know—”

“Jesus,” Bofur interrupts, scrubbing his palm over his face, hiding the way his smile is widening, big enough to fall into, get lost in. Then, he parts his thighs, shifting his hips a bit so Bard can feel the way he’s thickening up, twitching awake, and _fuck,_ his mouth floods immediately. “I mean, ’m not gonna say no to another blow job, knock yourself out,” he says, fingers sweet and gentle at the back of Bard’s neck, kneading the cords there thoughtfully. “I just—‘

“Don’t say you don't understand why I want to. Just—believe me, ok? Can you feel how bad I want you all the fucking time?” Bard begs in a hush still drunk on the raw, wild possibility night, vision hazy and vice desperate as he tightens his hands on either side of Bofur’s hips, making him cry out, his cock twitching. “Let me suck you.” 

And then there’s that choked, self-deprecating laugh again. Bard loves everything about Bofur, but not that. He wants to replace it. Smooth over it with his hands, find every ripple of insecurity and patch them up and kiss the stitches. _I love you,_ he thinks again, licking over the jut of Bofur’s hip bone, one hand smoothing down the curve of his belly to cup this thickening cock in in hand. _Let me love you._

 _“_ Fuck. Ok. Have at it,” Bofur sighs, and gives up the fight. 


End file.
